


who's who

by Insular_Keyboard_Chimp



Category: Homestuck, Homestuck Epilogues, Pesterquest - Fandom
Genre: Attempted Homisuicide, Blowjobs, Fivesome - M/M/M/M/M, Foursome - M/M/M/M, John Isn't Straight, M/M, Metafiction, Rope Bondage, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-cest, mindfuckery, special formatting, ultimate dirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insular_Keyboard_Chimp/pseuds/Insular_Keyboard_Chimp
Summary: *stumbles in stoned, late, and uninvited*NOT MOBILE FRIENDLY! hover your mouse over the anime shades for the meat of the story! thanks so much to the folks doing the DirkJohn 2020 Big Bang for their incredible work on this ship. concrit and comments are very much welcome!
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Kudos: 13





	who's who

It all started after the decision. What started as a hairline fracture of self-doubt was rapidly cracking into a yawning chasm that threatened to burst out of his guts and swallow him whole. On days like this, when his stomach was churning with nausea and he couldn't handle the most basic of choices like whether to shower or eat, John would lay in bed until evening. Then he'd light the hearth in his Dad's old study, lounge in his father's plush armchair, and think. He'd think obsessively, worrying at his fingernails and temples, wondering whether or not his father would think he'd become a good man. Whether or not he was trampling on his father's memory with his clumsy, misguided heroics.

Whether or not to text Dave, or have lunch with Roxy, or just do the windy thing and get dressed already, loser. He worried he'd be intruding on his friends' lives by zapping back into them. They all seemed happy enough on Earth-C, with families and oodles of real people in a real world while John was stuck in an empty house with a dusty fedora hanging from a coatrack that would never, ever be used again. He thought perhaps, through the fucking ridiculous logic of Paradox Space, he'd already ruined their lives. What have you done, John?   
And on this particular night, at a mixer in the Carapace Kingdom held by the Lalonde-Maryam family, John knew he was ruining his. Sulking in a corner over a heady but untouched tumbler of cognac (because let's face it, luxury doesn't matter when you can alchemize anything you want), John contemplated slipping through the crowded entryway and absconding to the patio.

Which he did.

The smell of whiskey and perfume blended with the cool evening air into a rich potpourri that followed John as he sat in a patio chair and stared vacantly at the crescent moon. Dirty, smelly John. He blinked at the sound of fabric shifting and turned. Across from him, arms crossed, was Dirk. He didn't know much about the guy, except for a few rumors and a handful of group chats. Emotionally constipated Dirk. Tyrannically egotistical Dirk. John put down his drink and nodded briskly to his silent companion, who frowned. He was standing with his hands in the pockets of a dark brown suit with a burnt orange pocket square and tie.

  


  


It's boring. I'll admit that much. It's one of the few inevitable consequences of being an omniscient demiurge responsible for the general upkeep of infinite iterations of myself and their respective petty social circles: I've got an atrocious abundance of spare time. Since I've already got my ascension in motion, which I assure you is going completely according to keikaku and will result in the betterment of myself and others, whether they like it or not. And I know you're a little peeved about that, but I frankly couldn't give a fuck. 

You're an insipid meddler with an unhealthy voyeurism fetish, and I've got to keep an eye on entirety of Paradox Space because I'm a responsible fucking adult. You understand.

Don't nod, that was sarcasm. Pat yourself on the back if you noticed. You deserve it, champ.

Back to the meat of the matter: I have leisure time which I'm not normally accustomed to, and John Egbert is both a wall-eyed idiot and the one of the few people capable of royally fucking up my plans. This isn't to his credit, of course, because he lacks the discipline and mental fortitude to proactively do literally anything. No, I'm not worried that buck-toothed windsock is going to disassemble my sophisticated and complex Rube Goldberg machine of deification. It's more likely he'll get triggered by an inciting incident and his inner protagonist will blow my house of cards down without him even noticing. I've got him on the back burner, but the end goal is clear: eliminate John Egbert. He's currently chilling in his house, being miserable. I nudge him to be a little more miserable, just for fun. Nothing cures heroic impulses like crippling depression. That's right, John. Fucking wallow, you sad sack of shit.

There's still a pitiful splinter of myself moping around in his sickeningly saccharine Earth-C. I intend to eliminate him as well, considering he's still burdened by the facile shackles of morality. In the interim, however, I could use him. It's painfully easy to set up a trite little scenario where the two of them end up in the same place. Candified Dirk is just as miserable in his beachside apartment, and it's easy to guilt him into attending a contrived soiree hosted by -- hm, let's pick Rose. That'll get him out of the workshop. Two birds, one stone.

_God dammit._

You look like shit, Egbert.

i, uh, i didn't bother getting dressed up for tonight. i thought it was just going to be, like...casual. ha ha! ha. uh.

It's Kanaya's chalet. Would you expect anything less than tastefully arranged silverware and delicate canapes? That's pretty fucking rude, man. She'd burst into vapor if she heard you undermining her as a hostess. And then, after her final heartbroken soliloquoy, Rose would puncture your carotid artery with a knitting needle. I can see the headline now: "local recluse earns Just death". Brutal.

_Oh, fuck no._

Or maybe: founder avenges vampire wife, declares annual day of mourning.

yeah! heh. she would. so i should, uh, probably get going now. before i stain the furniture.

I don't much feel like mingling either, to be honest. Head back to your place or mine? No, screw it. Your place is an ungodly fucking dumpster fire disguised as a suburban home. We're going to my apartment. Zap us there.

John reached for his tumbler of fancy whiskey with a smile. He was suddenly feeling quite parched.

uh. what? i mean, sure, but i feel like this conversation is moving really fast and your...hehe, sick burn still kind of stings?

Dirk flashstepped into John and grabbed him by the shoulder.

woah.

Yeah. I'd jump at any opportunity to leave, please. I'm giving you a rare glimpse of emotional honesty, here, and I'd appreciate it if you met me half-way. I'm dangling this flaccid olive branch in front of your bespectacled braincase with the deranged intention of getting the fuck out of here. I'm really overstepping my boundaries by asking for the small fucking favor of using your, frankly, fucking ridiculous powers as a glorified rideshare.

John kind of wishes he could see his eyes. There's something between annoyance and utter desperation tugging at Dirk's face and John knew he wasn't good at reading between the lines when it came to the confounded ironies. He should probably just do what he's told.

...cool.

John couldn't shake the feeling that something was off as he zapped them to Dirk's apartment. It was modeled after the manmade island anchored to the seafloor of conquered Houston. Predictably, it was also filthy.

  


Oh, it's perfect. I look dapper as usual, even if I lack the muscle definition, self-confidence, and overall superiority of my Ultimate Self. John looks like shit. It's great. It looks like he's started drinking. Going down the old Harlglish path, Egbert? Slippery slope, man. I don't need intoxicants, even though meatpuppet Dirk is on the cusp of a nervous breakdown. Too bad; he's the weakest link in the Ultiverse and it's his own fault. Man the fuck up, softboi. Neither of you want to be here. Let's get this show on the road.

Zap.

  
John's fine with this. He has no reservations whatsoever about booking it with a handsome emotional trainwreck in tow. Nothing is wrong, John. Just two bros fulfilling their mutual need to self-isolate and ruminate over cosmically insignificant bullshit. I'm anticipating a suicide pact by midnight. I would like to reiterate: this is good.

Is this good?

th is isnt ri ght ???

What the fuck? I don't recall my narrative control lapsing. I seize the strings of my marionettes and tug them violently until they're taut under my control. No autonomy for you cucks. You obviously can't be trusted with it. Now, hush.

uh, dirk? there's a lot of really sharp metal just laying around in here. i get the swords in the fridge thing because i know dave, but...

Stop. Please, just stop.

oh! i'm sorry for insulting your interior decorating skills! i guess i just don't learn my lesson, do i? eheh...

No, John. I didn't mean --

no! it's totally fine! everything is awesome and you've got a rockin pad! i just...

John paused and scrunched up his nose. He stepped over the detritus to get a better look at Dirk. He looked like he was concentrating really, really hard on something. In a moment, he sighed and motioned for John to join him on the futon.

do you wanna play some video games or something?

Yeah. That'd be...better. Can we just not talk? I feel like if we didn't talk, this would be easier. 

um. whatever you say, buddy. like i can tell something is wrong, dude, you're being super obvious about it --

But that's fine, because we're just going to play video games.

is this deflection? i feel like this thing about not talking is code for you wanting to vent but like...not wanting to be judged and i'm definitely still sticking my foot in my mouth. sorry. i'm not helping. let's just play some -- thing. uh. what about this one??

Dirk looked up to see John shamelessly holding a copy of Dramatical Murder: Reconnect. He snorted. 

That's your first impulse? Dude.

what? what's wrong with it? all these guys look pretty rad, i'd say! can i be the one with the bird? he looks pretty tough.

Dirk was wheezing. It's so hard not to laugh.

Let's just play Mario Kart. If you're really that curious, you can borrow that one and review it for me. Oh, and record your reaction.

no! i can't just leave it when you're throwing all this shady hype at me! let's play this sucker!

Much to Dirk's chagrin, John popped the disc into an optical drive hooked to a massive pile of electronics and turned on the flatscreen. The next thirty minutes were spent with John giving completely oblivious color commentary while Dirk clicked through the safest route he could remember. Both of them were smiling until the inevitable eroge scene hit and Dirk heaved with laughter at John's utter disbelief. 

BLUH!!!!

I warned you, bro! I...wait. Why are you laughing?

you didn't tell me this was that kind of game!!! i can't believe it! me, of all people, falling for a classic prankster's gambit!

Prankster's gambit, huh?

yeah! you really got me, man. that was a good one.

You went through that to make me laugh, didn't you?

oh. uh, ha ha. no, dude, you totally caught me off guard there.

They locked eyes. John's grin fell.

did it work?

I appreciate it.

look, i'm not one to talk. i mean, look at me! a washed up failure who barely leaves his suffocating prison of a house! but you don't seem like yourself. i mean...you do, but you don't seem like you're doing alright, if that makes any sense? like you're...you, obviously, and we never really talked, but --

You're right. 

John's contrition vanished and his gaze whipped up.

i am?

Yeah. You're absolutely right; I don't feel like myself at all, these days. After we landed, after everything, I just stopped. It was like I was trapped inside of myself, surrounded by all these people, but with nothing to do. What purpose does my existence serve if I'm not playing the game? What am I accomplishing in this vibrantly pointless paradise? Once you've obtained a limitless choice set, where's the structural incentive to exercise that power at all? We are the founding ideology of Earth-C. We're the core structure of everything, which means that I am literally the center of my own universe. And I have no fucking idea what to believe in when I'm forced to believe in myself.

dirk? you're kind of going at a dizzying pace there and i can't really understand half of what you're saying, but i think i get the gist of it? you're having trouble...adjusting to everything after the game? including being a god not getting chased through paradox space by a hulk puppet and evil clowns?

  


...That's enough. I said hush, not "titter like a fujoshi at Comike and have a pillow fight." This isn't talk therapy. We're not sharing our feelings, here. What we're doing is a systematic search-and-destroy mission on any bastard who'd dare endanger my ascension into total omniscience. Including myself.

I don't want this. Get the fuck out of my head.

>dirk? it's like i'm hearing...two of you? three? one is definitely a asshole though???

You can't stop me. You're only inhibiting yourself by resisting your inherent nature. Because you're technically part of the collective, I'm granting you parity. I ascend and, in return, you get a merciful end to your suffering and the promise of a greater purpose.

that's him! that's the asshole!

Keenly aware.

Shut the fuck up. I have no idea how either of you managed to breach my narrative dominion, but you're under my thumb here. And I will crush you.

it might be something to do with, like, my retcon powers. or something. in case you haven't thought of that yet, genius.

It's more likely a side effect of our aspects interacting in a non-canon narrative plane. You're the aspect of freedom and I can clearly inhabit my own splinters, as evidenced by this asshole manipulating me like a used handpuppet for months.

holy shit dude.

Yeah. Mental fist bump?

definitely. uh...for the record, i've been thinking. a lot. about myself and my dad and...somehow i feel like even though you -- uh, he -- was controlling me, i still made some breakthroughs in the whole self-discovery shtick?

That's it. I'm out. I can't take this horseshit anymore. Do what you will, pricks, but rest assured I'll be back for blood.

That's nice.

can we go back to our bodies now? this is weird.

I'd very much prefer that.

They both went stock still for a moment. Suddenly, everything rushed in like a brilliant flash of color painting their vision. The world had realness. Dirk gingerly laid his hand over John's in gratitude.

Thank you. I needed a break from that.

woah...yeah, so did i, apparently. i wouldn't have believed any of that before today, but man, that was another heap of crazy shit on the paradox space pile, wasn't it? sheesh!

An easy smile came to John as he lounged on the futon, completely unperturbed by the hand-holding. Dirk found himself lazily leaning into John's side and returning the smile with levity he hadn't felt in ages. Slowly they began to entwine into a tangle of clamoring limbs and clammy skin. It felt so, so good. They'd denied themselves human comfort for so long, it was only natural that they'd end up knotted together like a pretzel on Dirk's fluffy futon. They laid like that, basking in peaceful silence, for an hour. With a dazed hush, John finally spoke.

so...splinters, huh?

Mn. And you said something about self-discovery?

yeah. i discovered i'm really lonely.

We can do something about that. I think I'd like to exercise a little control over my splinters, just to make sure I've regained full autonomy.

John looked up at Dirk with tentative confusion. The bemusement settled into calm understanding as John untangled himself from the embrace.

i think that'd be pretty neat!

Dirk grinned and happily _split himself apart_.

Things escalate quickly from there. There's gnawing at lips and tongues and several hands grasping at John to pin him to the futon. He's totally subdued and soon stark naked with an erection nestled hard in his pubic hair. It's so goddamn red from Dirk's splinters occasionally lipping at the glans between pinprick bites and hickeys along John's skin. One of them is teasing John with the tip of his tongue while another is swallowing his whimpers. John looks absolutely starstruck by the endless attention being lavished upon him. His glasses are askew as the kiss breaks. There's an obscene trail of spit connecting their tongues as John gasps for air. He's smothered by another open-mouthed session soon enough.

It's filthier than hentai. If Dirk had his way, they'd be approaching Euphoria territory really quickly, but John definitely isn't ready for that. Instead, Dirk materializes a splinter of himself clad only in scarlet shibari and a leather blindfold. Since his wrists are tightly bound behind his back and he's effectively blind, another splinter guides the former onto John's stomach. John's eyes pop at the sight and he's instantly leaking into his abundant happy trail. The splinter is eagerly grinding his taint against John's cock before suddenly being lifted by the shoulders and slid onto John's cock. The sick pop of suction earns a chorus of groans. There's so goddamn many of them, and Dirk is all of them at once. He centers himself in his original body and anchors himself to John's back, lying down underneath him and stealing his mouth.

And oh, god, he's so full. He's so fucking full of John. His splinters merge into a fourfold fractal of sensation and sound and sight. He can see John from every angle. He's drowning in a sea of sloppy sex noises and screaming as he's engulfed in this violent monsoon of ecstasy. The splinter of him that's riding John is panting as he's pounded. His fists tighten and he squirms against the scarlet ropes encircling his tense muscles. John's petting his sweaty hair, whispering gentle encouragement. The splinter teasing John's rim with the head of his cock is hissing at the sight, a shot of arousal jerking his hips into John until he's bottomed out. For a moment, everyone went still.

John. Talk to me. Oh, god, this is -- this is so much. You're so fucking good, John. I -- I could touch you forever. Everywhere. Please, talk to me.

oh god, dirk. dirk. i want this. please, i'm fine with it. i want to feel again. i want, i don't know, all of it. of you. dirk, please.

Dirk hissed. John's desperate voice struck a nerve that shot hot electricity straight down his cock. The last safe harbor for his self-control sank like the Titantic. The sloppy Dirk sucking John off started rimming him for prep. John was mewling like a kitten. Cute.

John gasped throughout the slow slide of Dirk's cock into his slick asshole; John went entirely still, leaving the splinter on top of him to whimper himself into a long, needy kiss against John's slack mouth. For a moment, everything is quiet spare their collective breathing and the sound of tongues sloppily entwining and lapping at each other. Dirk presses a kiss to John's cheek with a satisfied groan. He's feeling so heady with lust that he doesn't mind going slack under John and wrapping his arms around the latter's abdomen in a comfortably loose hug. John's soft around the middle, so he's a little like a human dakimakura. Dirk enjoys this idea a bit too much.

John gives him the go-ahead with a little nod and some bedroom eyes. They start moving in tandem, rocking the whole collective in time with Dirk's shallow thrusts. The splinter on top resumes riding John in rhythm with the fucking going on behind him. As John adjusts to the textured slide of Dirk's lubed cock against his prostate, he starts snapping his hips involuntarily. A wet cry erupts from the whiny splinter and John hurries to hush him and wipe a stray tear away from beneath his blindfold. God, it'd be pathetic if it weren't so fucking hot. 

John's panting now, groping at every Dirk like a kid in a candy store. He's struggling to last, so he wraps his hand around the splinter riding him, who spills immediately. The orgasm hits the collective group with a groaning haziness that leaves tingling pleasure in its wake. The splinter giving John an awesome blowjob starts stroking himself in earnest as he grinds into the futon. Everything is so slick and smooth that he can easily glide his fist along his shaft while nudging his cockhead against a cushion. 

It feels so, so good. Everything feels absolutely exquisite. The mental plane has gone hazy and haywire with splinters. Dirk can't feel himself. He's so fucking happy. The one on top slumps over, probably feeling overstimulated and shaky from the rest of the commotion. Dirk can't fucking tell, and he loves it. He's fucking flying on the sheer liberation of escaping his own head. Sure, he's forgotten the point of the exercise, but he's beyond caring. It's all too good, and soon everyone is coming undone. 

The one fucking John is ramming the latter's prostate with every thrust, chasing his orgasm with primal focus. The one humping the furniture is shooting his load as after deepthroating John like a champ. The one on top is drooling dumbly as his hips stutter against John's relentless pace. Soon enough, they're all crying with ecstasy and seeing spots. The collective orgasm hits them like a truck, and there's nothing but bright, searing carnal pleasure. Dirk feels like he had the wind knocked out of him as his splinters flicker away, his focus utterly ruined. Hell, all of him is ruined at this point. He wants to shake and cry and hug John and pet his hair and be told how good he did and wash John up and get him a glass of water and -- 

It's all too much. He can only shakily tighten his arms around John's midriff and nuzzle at his neck. In all fairness, John seems just as wrecked. He's gulping in deep breaths of air and pawing at Dirk's hands like he desperately needs something to hold onto. His legs are stiff and there's cum leaking out of him. Dirk gently kisses his temple and strokes his damp hair. Neither of them seem able to communicate using words at the moment. That's fine.  


As they quietly fall asleep, spooning each other on the soiled traditional Japanese futon, everything is fine. 

  


Yes, I admit that didn't go as intended. I may have made a minor miscalculation by underestimating John's infuriating boyish guile.

You know what? I don't have to explain myself to a twig-armed simp. Fuck you. 


End file.
